Because the Tax Committee remained in deadlock, the Special Fiscal Court could not yet be established. And so, in the weeks that followed, André lived at ease, drawing his annual salary of 4,000 livres while doing virtually nothing.

The recruitment and training of the mounted police company were left to professionals like Hoche and Augereau; André’s nominal duty was simply to maintain contact with the higher ranks of the police. That, however, was only the surface. In secret, the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court continued gathering evidence against the tax-farmers and quietly directed Inspector Javert to arrange preliminary measures across Paris. When the time came, André intended to play his trump card.

Between 60 and 100 million livres — that was the sum André had once guaranteed before the committee to the nation’s policymakers. When the fiscal deficit climbed to new heights in the second and third quarters, when the assignat discount rate slipped by another 8–10 percent, and when Necker was finally driven back to Geneva to spend his retirement, the deepening financial crisis would force the Constituent Assembly to reconsider André’s proposal.

One early-summer afternoon, shortly after lunch, André was about to lie down for a nap when a knock came at the door. On being admitted, a short, neatly dressed young man entered, carrying a leather portfolio. He introduced himself as Charles Ouvrard, a commission broker from the stock exchange, sent by Monsieur Legendre.

“A 20-year-old broker?” André raised an eyebrow. Impossible.

By law, Parisian stockbrokers were appointed by the Ministry of Finance — a fixed corps of 99, of whom 71 were based in Paris and 8 in the provinces. Every broker had to be at least 35 years old, of respectable birth, and with no criminal record. Most inherited their seat from their fathers.

“The real broker must be your father, old Ouvrard,” André said suddenly.

“No, Monsieur Franck,” replied the visitor. “That is my elder brother. There are three of us: my eldest brother succeeded our father at the Paris Exchange; the second went to London and also works in securities; I myself study law at the Sorbonne, and I run errands for my brother to earn my tuition.”

André smiled faintly. He did not believe that a part-time law student had come all this way merely to pay respects. His gaze swept the young man up and down before he asked, “I am sure Monsieur Legendre has already told you my investment goals and the amount I intend to place. Is there anything more to clarify?”

“No, not that,” said Ouvrard quickly. “I came today to present you with a far more profitable investment — a venture of enormous return.”

There were indeed such ventures in the world, André thought, but they existed only in monopoly and plunder.

“Go on,” he said, reclining against the sofa, inviting Ouvrard to sit.

“Monsieur Franck, you are surely familiar with the assignats issued by the Treasury at the end of last year. I have studied this security in detail and believe it will soon become the main circulating currency imposed by a deficit government. Naïve Monsieur Necker imagines the crisis can be solved by printing money backed by Church property — a notion both absurd and ruinous, a banker’s act of violence against private wealth.”

On this point André fully agreed. The assignat
had indeed followed that fatal path. Issued at 40 million livres in December, it doubled to 80 million by March. Within months the amount would climb to 200 million, a billion, then tens of billions — until printing could no longer keep pace with its collapse in value, and it became worthless paper.

The promising dawn of 1790 had been squandered by Necker and his Swiss financiers. The reckless issue and lax oversight of assignats

had allowed speculators to drain the fortune of 25 million citizens. Inflation soared, bread prices rose, and the markets faltered — a chain of social disasters born from a single fiscal folly.

But then again, André told himself, what did the nation’s economic policy have to do with him? Even as a member of the Assembly’s Finance Committee, even as chief adviser to the Treasury, he could hardly alter the tide.

Oblivious to André’s silent thoughts, Ouvrard continued: “Sometimes, bad instruments can be turned to good ends. In my view, the assignat itself can be the perfect vehicle for investment. Here in Paris, Necker’s cabinet has kept its depreciation to roughly 10 percent, but in London the discount runs as high as 30.”

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

He drew from his case a hand-drawn chart filled with numbers and symbols, spreading it across the table.

“In other words,” he explained, “excluding fees, 100 livres in silver can buy assignats with a face value of 143 livres in London, while in Paris it buys only 111. With my brother’s assistance in London, we can obtain 5- to 8-fold leverage — whereas Paris brokers offer at most 3. Even at the lowest rate, 100 livres would yield 715 livres in assignats.”

“And what am I to do with depreciating paper?” André asked coldly, though he could already see the outline of the plan.

“Monsieur Franck—”

“Call me André.”

“Yes, Monsieur André. If you use assignats to buy goods, of course it is folly. But do not forget: they are backed by the nationalised property of the Church. When purchasing such property — houses, lands, or goods — the state must accept assignats at full face value.

“Now consider: 100 livres in silver, multiplied fivefold through London, gives 715 livres in assignats. Under current law, one pays only 10 percent of the purchase price upfront; the rest may be settled within 3–6 months. Thus, that same 100 livres, transformed into 715 assignats, and used with tenfold leverage, could acquire land worth 7,150 livres. Even after deducting fees and commissions, the return remains roughly 1:40. One livre becomes 40; 10,000 becomes 400,000; 50,000 becomes 2 million.”

“Consulting fees,” André thought, smiling inwardly — how familiar the term sounded.

For a moment it felt as if he were back in another life, listening to some modern financial salesman pitch an implausible scheme. Yet, returning to the present, he had to admit the young man’s idea was brilliant: complex, risky, but staggeringly profitable. A forty-fold return — outrageous, yet seductive.

“Why me?” he asked.

Ouvrard flushed, lowering his eyes. “Because no one believes me — not even my brother.”

Of course not. Who would hand 50,000 livres to a university boy for speculation? Yet André, armed with foresight, knew that many great fortunes of the Revolution and the Empire had been built exactly this way — through assignats and confiscated Church lands.

“If I invest,” André asked, “which estates would you target?”

The student’s eyes gleamed. “Paris offers the highest profit but also the highest risk — unrest, hunger, riots. I recommend Bordeaux or Champagne. Both are famous for wine; the Church owns vast vineyards and cellars there. Divide the estates into parcels, and they’ll sell instantly.”

“Clever boy,” André thought approvingly. That insight alone proved his worth. In later years, most vineyards of Bordeaux and Champagne would indeed pass into private hands — lands once belonging to the Church between 1790 and 1795.

Records from the Palais de Justice showed that the Church owned 15 percent of all land in France. Along the Marne River, through the heart of Champagne near Reims, as much as 60 percent — especially vineyards — had been ecclesiastical property.

Since his arrival in this era, André had dreamt of mining that golden vein. He was no moralist, merely waiting for his chance. Now it had come: with nearly 100,000 livres in savings, respectable influence, and a capable broker, he could finally join the feast.

Besides, if he didn’t, someone else would. Why should the monks keep all the spoils?

From a conspirator’s view, the French financial system had to be weakened first; only then would Necker fall, and the Assembly remember the honest prosecutor still waiting to serve.

André went to the cabinet, took two glasses, and poured a Bordeaux of 1777. Handing one to Ouvrard, he raised his own. “You’ve convinced me. To our future success — cheers.”

“Cheers!”

They drank deeply and turned to details. André agreed to invest 50,000 livres — funds once reserved for an insurance portfolio — under Ouvrard’s management. After expenses, the broker would receive 20 percent of the net profit.

“Monsieur André,” asked Ouvrard while packing his papers, “why not buy Church land near Reims? As a native, your influence there must be far greater than in Bordeaux.”

André hesitated, then answered awkwardly, “Personal reasons. Besides, Reims — as the old capital of Champagne — has long been at odds with Paris. The Assembly has struck it from the list of nine principal cities and denied it provincial status. Too many political complications, too much risk of unrest. We’ll begin in Bordeaux, even if the profit’s smaller. Around late June I’ll apply, in my capacity as the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court, to travel there on behalf of the Palais de Justice and the Assembly to audit local tax collection.”

At times, that hollow title of prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court brought unexpected advantages. It granted him authority to investigate any taxable entity, issue search warrants, and order detentions — though such warrants could be overturned by a judge at any moment.

The real problem was that without the court’s establishment — the Assembly appointing judges, the Palais de Justice naming prosecutors — André could investigate but not prosecute. Only when a provincial court invited Paris to assist could he act fully. Conveniently, only days ago, the Bordeaux court had sent such a request.

An hour later, André verified his documents, signed them, and sealed them with his personal stamp.

By agreement, Ouvrard would leave within a week for the London Exchange to join his brother, then sail for Bordeaux in June. André would follow in late June, after the mounted troop’s first training cycle.

“Oh, one more thing, Monsieur André,” said Ouvrard, pausing at the door. “Monsieur Legendre mentioned that you plan to buy bonds of the Paris Waterworks Company.”

André nodded. “That’s right.”

“In that case, wait a week. The market’s buzzing with rumours — a faction angry with the Périer brothers is spreading slander against the company. If it takes hold, you may be able to buy more than half of its two-year bonds for 30,000 livres, perhaps even less.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep